The High Road Is Hard to Find
by crimescenelover
Summary: He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.
1. There's a Reckoning A-coming

**Chapter 1**

 **Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : There's a Reckoning A-coming

 **Author's Note:** Hello! It's me again! I managed to finish this story relatively shortly after "Of Bonds Forged in Fire". The reason for that is lately I have had a lot of time on my hands. Like A LOT! And thus, a lot of time ended up being devoted to writing this story. Until a few weeks ago I only had small bits and pieces and a general outline of how this story was going to go, which wasn't much and then the inspiration from the previous story wouldn't leave me alone so this just exploded and now it is finished!

This is the story of how Clint recruited Natasha into SHIELD. Unfortunately it isn't going to be as action-packed and nail-biting as "Of Bonds Forged in Fire". This is primarily focused on talking between characters because as I imagine it, if you bring in a super-assassin there would be A LOT of explaining to do! So this is mostly speaking story, but of course there will be some good old-fashioned action sprinkled in here because that's how we like it!

Chapter titles are from "Blood on my name" by The Brothers Wright.

Well, I think I've rambled enough for now! So enjoy and don't forget to leave a review on the way out! Thx!

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

" _I'm far from what I once was but not yet what I'm going to be_ "

* * *

"I swear if we're going to get another repeat of Morocco I might actually kill someone."

Phil Coulson rolled his eyes dramatically at the ramblings of the assassin walking next to him. Clint Barton might be many things, but a complainer about what life had handed him was not one of them. He had been through hell and seen and done more than any should have had to at his age, but he never complained about the hand he had been dealt. But anything regarding small annoyances here and there, the man wasn't shy of expressing his dissatisfaction. Sometimes in the most childish manner.

The soles of their shoes echoed against the white tiles in the hall that led to Nick Fury's office as they walked side by side. Mission briefings with the SHIELD Director himself were a rare occurrence and if they ever happened it would mostly involve only the handlers of the missions who would later relay the appropriate information to the assets. For both himself and Clint to show up at Nick's office left a deep worrying feeling in the pit of Phil's stomach. He had no idea what to expect and no inkling to what they would be told in there. His charge openly didn't share Phil's own worries as he rambled on like it was just another normal day at the office and a normal briefing like any other. But the handler knew better. He suspected Clint was just as anxious to see what all this was about and only hid behind his casual mask of indifference like he always did.

But Phil had been trying ever since he had brought the archer in, a little over four years now, to make Barton open up a bit more and though it had worked in some aspects, it seemed like some habits were too hard to simply break out of and some masks seemed to be glued a little too well to the face. But still, Clint had let him in eventually and let him see what lurked behind the hard wall of a stone cold assassin and it had been worth everything he had had to go through. One of the aspects was that the handler could identify when the mask was in place or if it was the truth he saw.

"Come on, Barton. You had fun on that trip, I know you did," Phil said now with a light smirk playing over his lips.

"Sure, right up until the ambush, everything was rainbows and kittens." Clint's voice was riddled with sarcasm.

They rounded a corner and found themselves in front of the glass door to Fury's office. "Tell you what," Phil said as he grabbed the handle and pushed the heavy slab of glass open. "When we're done with this, I'll put in for a vacation."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Coulson. Besides we wouldn't last a minute out there," Clint argued as he waltzed in.

Fury was waiting for them with his arms crossed behind his desk, eyeing both of them and their light banter. But he did so without any of the old amusement that Phil could normally discern in his eye and his whole body was so tense the handler feared he might pop at any moment. Even the air around him screamed anxiety. He had never seen his friend so absolutely restless. Yet he also seemed slightly victorious. It unnerved Phil because he had no idea what could have brought this state on.

"Nice of the two of you to show up," Fury said. His voice was cool and collected and anything his body wasn't. "Sit."

Barton had already taken one of the chairs standing in front of the desk and had leaned all the way back while he rested his elbows on the armrests. As Phil walked across the large office space he mused that the archer at least had the decency not to prop his feet up on the wooden table like he did during most of their briefings. Perhaps it was because he had already figured out that Fury would probably shoot him in both feet without blinking should he do it.

Nick hit a small button and the curtains slid down over the windows, disrupting the view over Washington and encasing them in darkness. The only light came from the screen that lit up on the wall next to them. Along with a few notes to the side, it showed a large surveillance picture of an older man. His grey hair was held back from his forehead and his dark suit was slightly crumbled.

"Vladimir Angeloff?" Barton said out loud as he recognized him.

"The politician?" Phil clarified and turned towards Fury with frown on his face. From what he understood the Russian was a simple and, surprisingly, non-corrupted politician of the Russian parliament. He hadn't heard of any activity from Angeloff's side that would land him on their watch list.

"What did he do?" Clint asked next to him. Clearly he had reached the same conclusion. Both agents were staring at Fury in confusion, waiting for him to explain.

"He is not our concern. The person sent to assassinate him in a few weeks however is a different story," the Director quickly clarified. He clicked a button on the small remote that controlled the screen and another picture appeared next to Angeloff. This one however was blurry and clearly taken in a rush. The only thing discernible from it was that it resembled a striking, young woman and most noticeable was the flame of red color that was her hair. "The Black Widow."

Phil's stomach fell. Next to him, Clint straightened up in his chair and stared at the screen.

"No way," he murmured. Phil couldn't decide what it was he heard in the archer's voice: awe or disbelief. Perhaps a mixture of both.

Fury continued on, relentless and undeterred by the interruption. "A lot of our own had to sacrifice their lives so we could get a hold of that intel. It sticks. For years we've been trying to track her down and always she has eluded us."

Both Phil and Barton directed their eyes back to the Director, who in turn leaned on his hands across the desk. "This time we have not only her location, but also her target," he continued and now he zeroed in on Clint. "I want her eliminated, Barton. She has been a thorn in the side of every peace-seeking intelligence agency around the globe for far too long. She is to be erased from the map permanently and silently. Am I understood?"

Clint held the one-eyed gaze steadily and without flinching. A feat not easily done. "Yes, sir."

At this, Fury eased up a bit and stood up straight again. The curtains began rising again, slowly letting in the sunlight that seemed very bright all of the sudden. "Good. And I believe I don't have to mention how extremely dangerous she is."

"With all due respect, sir," Barton said as he rose from the chair. A confident smirk played over his lips. "So am I."

Phil had already gotten up from his chair with a slight nod towards Nick and now held open the door for Clint to exit through. As the younger man passed him, he heard him mutter:

"So much worse than Croatia."

* * *

They were scheduled to leave only a few hours later and both agents had quickly packed their bags, which never really got to be properly unpacked lately.

They sat in the back of one of the SHIELD jets that would take them to Moscow, waiting for the pilots to get ready and the jet to be operational. Phil watched Clint in the seat across from him go over the way-too-thin manila folder that relayed all there was to know about the Black Widow. It wasn't much … It actually wasn't anything as no one had gotten close enough to her to get a proper description and lived to tell the tale. The grainy photo had been somewhat of a great breakthrough to acquire along with the few details they had managed to gather over the years.

Truthfully, most of their facts were based on rumors flowing from the crime underworld and how much of those that were reliable were impossible to determine. It wasn't much to go on at all. And that unnerved Phil greatly. He wasn't comfortable with sending any agent in a situation when they didn't have any form for overview, least of all Clint. He cared deeply for the agent, but Phil also knew that he was more than able to take care of himself. He was one of the best they had and if anyone could neutralize the Black Widow it would be him.

But that didn't settle Phil's racing heart and frizzling nerves. And judging by the rapid way Clint's leg was bouncing up and down, he wasn't the only one feeling it.

"What do you know of her?" Phil asked. With a figure as notorious as the Black Widow, he suspected Clint would have heard of her during his contract days, back when he was only known as Hawkeye.

"Nothing," Clint honestly replied with a light shrug of his shoulder. "No one does. She was a phantom in the assassin circles; a legend." He tossed the folder back to the small table between them.

"And here I thought that's what you were," Phil tauntingly said, a light smile around his lips.

"Oh no, I made my name and it was feared, yes," Clint stated seriously. Then a wry smile started to spread out on his lips as he rambled on. "But the Black Widow … I mean - If assassins had fan clubs she would be the center of them all. She was the one everyone aspired to be. If two assassins raised little assassin babies she would be the monster they were told about at night so they would behave-"

Phil sighed and gave his smirking charge a simple raised eyebrow. "I get it, Barton."

 **TBC**


	2. The Whole Wide World Coming After You

**Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : The Whole Wide World Coming After You

 **Author's Note:** And we are on to chapter 2! Not a whole lot of action in this one but definitely some excitement! Everybody please enjoy. And if you were to be so kind as to leave a review regarding your thoughts at the end it would be much appreciated!

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

The dark clouds above Clint's head had gathered tightly together in the past few hours and formed a thick grey layer, efficiently blocking the sun from shining its meek light on Moscow's colorful buildings, and the archer raised his head to see if perhaps they would soon release the water they held.

Barton quickly concluded that the sky would remain dry but grey. He only felt the chill of the light wind that ran across his skin and through his short hair. With it, it carried only the harsh smells of an industrial city and not the distinct fresh one that usually followed before a downpour. He was glad. The archer was used to working under tough weather conditions, but not having to worry about slipping on a rooftop or loss of visibility was always a blessing. He turned his attention back towards the street far down below him for any sign of a certain redhead in the crowd.

He wouldn't admit it to anyone, not even Phil, but he was anxious. Ever since he joined SHIELD he suspected a call like this might pop up sooner or later. Natasha Romanoff, or the Black Widow as she commonly known, was the most notorious assassin in modern time and almost everyone in the criminal underworld was wary of her to say the least. He might have been joking before in the plane, but it wasn't entirely untrue. She was a deadly legend and there weren't many who could claim an encounter with the Widow that lived to tell the frightening tale afterwards. She was dangerous and deep down Clint didn't know how on earth he could possibly take her down. Like most missions, he decided to go with the flow and take it from there. With the Widow, you couldn't simply make up a plan. With her, Clint could only rely on Murphy's Law: Anything that could go wrong, would go wrong.

He and Phil had arrived in Moscow only days ago and after quickly setting up in their small safe house, Clint had taken to the streets. He started scouting every location known to Vladimir Angeloff and followed the politician everywhere. He figured it was the easiest way to track down the Widow. If she was truly after Angeloff then she would be tracking his movements too and eventually she would pop up on Clint's radar. It was only a matter of time.

And true enough, two days after their arrival Clint spotted the tell-tale sign of her fiery red hair in the crowd mingling about in the street. He didn't need binoculars to confirm it was her. He could spot her easily from his high vantage point on one of the rooftops.

"Coulson. I got visual," he muttered silently into the comm. unit placed in his ear. His eyes never left the Widow's red crown.

" _You actually found her?_ " Phil's voice betrayed his surprise. His handler, just like the archer himself, didn't hold any high hopes of actually spotting the Black Widow, especially not out in the open like that. It was peculiar at best and foolish at worst. Clint didn't know what to think, which was why he didn't even bother to reach for an arrow in his quiver. Not yet. He wondered what her game was, and was determined to figure out what exactly she was doing.

So when Phil's voice came in his ear: " _Can you take her out?_ " he already had an answer ready.

"Not yet. The street's too crowded and she knows it."

It was partially true. There were a lot of people out today and the streets were teeming with Russians going to and from. He wasn't scared that he would hit somebody; he could hit her from here if he had to, but it wouldn't exactly be subtle with so many witnesses. But mostly, he wanted to know what the Widow was doing.

So he hooked his bow onto his back with his quiver and moved away from the roof ledge, so nobody would spot the bow-carrying assassin running on rooftops. And he followed the Black Widow through the city of Moscow.

* * *

The more Clint saw, the more confused he got. The more days that passed, the more Phil got suspicious that the archer was staling for something.

At first, it had looked as a simple operative stalking her next target. But Clint began to easily spot her weaving through the crowds and could even follow her partially home to her safe house until he had eventually lost sight of her trail. That didn't really matter though. He had already narrowed down the neighborhood where she was staying. What did matter however, was that it quickly escalated to an operative making herself just as easily followed as her target. Clint could feel the frustrating bubbling within him because for reasons he could not even begin to phantom, the Widow was making herself obvious and clear as day. It was like she wanted to be followed. She was practically inviting him to stalk her every move. And it bothered him to no end that he couldn't figure out why.

He tried to figure out her angle and came up empty with every single turn. He knew there had to be some kind of strategy involved in this play and she was openly mocking his stupidity and laughing in his face for not being able to see it. It had to be something he missed, some end game he hadn't thought of yet. So he kept following her, hoping she might slip and show her hand, so he knew.

For one thing was for certain: He wasn't about to fall into her trap.

It neared almost a full week before apparently the higher-ups decided enough was enough. Phil's voice crackled over the comm. unit in his ear; weary, tired and tense as it had been for almost the entire operation. " _Hawkeye. We got word from upstairs. End it now_."

"This still doesn't make sense, you know," Clint argued, while his eyes followed the Widow down the street like he had for quite a few number of days now.

" _I know it doesn't. But we won't have a better chance to end it._ " Phil's words might have been stern and professional, but his tone was compassionate. He too had found it odd for Romanoff to surface like this and therefore had allowed Clint to continue stalking his prey instead of simply taking her out like he was really supposed to. But it couldn't go on forever.

"I don't like it, Phil," Clint quietly stated. He didn't care that he used his handler's name right now.

He heard Phil sigh heavily on the other end. " _It's not up to you. Or me. Not this time_."

Clint hung his head. He hated losing, because that was what it felt like. Finishing up without knowing all the facts just felt wrong somehow. "I know. 'Let you know when it's done." The archer clicked off his contact with his handler.

Sighing, he straightened up a little more on the rooftop, but still made sure he was out of sight for most of the citizens. He clutched his bow tighter in his hand and let its cold surface and its familiar feel calm his nerves. He often sought its solace and never did it fail to soothe him. This time was no different. He tried to look at it in another light. Hawkeye would be the one to finally take down the Black Widow. A feat many had tried and failed to do over the years.

 _It's something, I guess_.

He took an arrow from the quiver and placed it on the string. He drew it back easily to his chin and sighted the redhead down. _Draw, breath, release_.

Just when he was about to let it fly, the Widow turned. And she stared right at him.

Clint hesitated.

It wasn't because she managed to figure out where he was crouching or when he decided to do what he came to do.

It wasn't because she was going to be staring him in the eyes when he put an arrow through her skull.

No, it was because as he looked at her and she looked at him, he recognized something in her green eyes. She reminded him of someone he had seen before. And at first he couldn't figure out who it could possibly be.

That was until it slowly dawned upon him who it was.

She reminded him of him.

Five years ago he had carried himself in the exact same way. He had worn the same look. That same pained look had been plastered onto his face and the same hard eyes had stared hauntingly back at him in the mirror. It was the look of desperation. It was one that had seen way too much and caused way too much destruction and death and carried around too heavy a burden for one person to lift. It was the look of someone crumbling. Of someone who just wanted it all to end. One way or another.

It stayed his hand.

He realized instantly he couldn't kill her.

There was too much of himself in her eyes that it would feel like putting an arrow into his own heart. Despite his personal hellish demons and nightmares he could never kill himself. He had always thought it too cowardly and Clint Barton was anything but a coward. Which was why, he couldn't release the arrow from the string. And he never could. It would be pure suicide and even though he would be reckless with little regard for his own life, he could never intentionally take his own life.

And so he couldn't take hers.

No matter how hard the rational part of his mind screamed at his muscles to relax and simply release the arrow, his fingers refused to move. They stubbornly stayed curled and held the string tight.

The math was done easily and the decision followed swiftly after.

She seemed to realize that he couldn't take the shot too and with a devastating look of disappointment she turned and disappeared in the crowd.

Clint angrily relieved the tensed bow-string and relieved his tightened muscles. He threw the arrow across the roof so hard it landed on the other side and broke in two.

"Dammit!" he exclaimed to the sky. He didn't give one damn about who heard him.

For awhile he just vented his rage and frustration at not being able to complete his task. He was foolish. It was so monumentally stupid that everything else he had ever done and said just couldn't compare. He had failed in his mission. The first time the amazing Hawkeye hadn't been able to hit his target. He was a failure. He didn't even have an idea how he could explain this. How could he explain that he let the Black Widow go? What would he say?

He contemplated whether or not he should return. He could just unplug the comm. unit in his ear and throw it to hell and simply take off. He could disappear in Moscow and never be seen again. He quickly shook of the thought. As tempting as it seemed it was a life he swore to both himself and Phil he would never return to. It would utterly destroy what was left of his soul. And SHIELD found him once. No doubt, they would eventually catch up with him again.

But he could offer no words as to his decision. No matter what, he couldn't kill the woman who had stared back at him. He simply couldn't. It was impossible.

He began to ponder what the hell he should do. And how on earth he could explain away this mishap. Fury wasn't exactly understanding and the Council even less so. He was screwed. But he knew what he had seen. The problem was he couldn't sweep it under the carpet with that explanation. Not unless they had been right next to him and saw what he had seen. Only then would they understand …

And that was when it hit him.

The idea started to form in his head. It was crazy; borderline insane in fact.

But he saw no alternative. And if his hunch was right, it could work. It would work.

 _Man, if Fury doesn't get to me first … Phil's gonna kill me_.

 **TBC**


	3. When the Fires Have Surrounded You

**Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : When the Fires Have Surrounded You

 **Author's Note:** Let me just start off by saying how sorry I am that it has been so long since my last post. I never meant to take it this far without posting a new chapter. Normally it would come around once a week, but my computer crashed and I have only now been able to upload something. As a thank you for your patience, my dear readers (assuming you haven't left me yet), I will post another chapter within a matter of days.

But until then, enjoy this one!

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Clint kept the radio silence. He knew Phil would kill him when he finally turned his comm. on again. That was if he lived long enough to turn it back on.

He decided not to let his thoughts dwell on those kind of things and instead focus on what on earth he was going to say. He was basically asking her to defect and he had absolutely no idea how she would respond.

For the umpteenth time during a few hours he considered if he was actually going insane. This was crazy and stupid. The stupidest thing he had ever done and that was a tough one to beat. As he sat perched on top of the roof across the apartment the Widow had disappeared into, waiting for the weak sunlight to disappear and for nighttime to arrive to make his move, it suddenly hit him what he was about to do.

If he failed, he would probably pay with his life. Either that, or the Widow could pay with hers, which came out with the same result. If he succeeded in convincing her and she came back with him, both of them could be branded traitors and locked up for the rest of their lives if they even got that luxury. It was entirely possible they just decided to execute the both of them immediately. He could lose everything he had worked for and achieved the past four years. Phil, Fury and the few friends he had impossibly gotten during this time would all be gone and he would have failed them all. His shot at redemption for everything he had done in his past would be his first and worst miss ever. There was a lot at stake. And was he willing to risk it all to bring in perhaps nothing more than a Russian spy?

But he had gotten a chance when he didn't even think one had existed … So the best he could do was to extend that courtesy to someone else who needed it just as badly.

He would take the consequences.

Come hell or high water. Or the fury of a certain SHIELD Director.

* * *

Evening finally came and Clint made his move.

He eyed the streets and made sure it was clear before he aimed a special grapple-hook arrow in the alley next to the raggedy apartment complex and fired. He swung soundlessly through the air until he reached the covering darkness of the small alley-way where he detached himself from the string and landed and rolled on the rough pavement.

He hid his bow and quiver quickly in one of the dumpsters, knowing it would be safe there. Then he swiftly and silently made his way through the backdoor and up the creaking stairs until he reached the thin wooden door of Black Widow's apartment.

He sneaked up toward the apartment and gingerly knelt down and placed his ear against the door. He listened after any indication she was still in there and she hadn't sneaked out during his waiting game. At first he couldn't even detect her breathing and any other agent might have thought she was gone and waltzed right in there to wait. But he knew better and listened more carefully.

 _There_.

A tiny adjustment of a foot caused the wooden floor to crack ever so slightly. Satisfied, he grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door open. He sneaked in, keeping his steps light. The light was off, enveloping the entire empty room in darkness. The only light came from the few still-functioning streetlights that filtered through the large windows, creating yellow squares that almost looked painted onto the wooden floor.

The rotten boards shrieked as someone moved behind him and the door slammed shut. "For five days you have followed me. Why?" a female voice demanded from behind him. There was no hint of an accent present despite her Russian origin.

"Actually I've followed you for seven," Clint casually replied.

There was a silent for a short moment as if she was surprised she hadn't detected him sooner. Then she continued on in a calm, rough voice: "If you are here to kill me, then you shouldn't have left your bow behind."

"I'm not going to need it," Clint smiled, even though she couldn't see his face. He flexed his hands and let a small knife slip out of his sleeve, his fingers gripping the steel hilt. He hid it before he went in. That and a larger combat knife he always carried in his boot were the only weapons he brought. No need to go in gun blazing for what he came to do.

A soft _click_ filled the room as the Widow cocked the safety of the gun she was aiming at Clint's head. "Bad call," was her response.

He couldn't help but grin wider. The fact that she hadn't pulled the trigger yet confirmed all of his suspicions. He had dressed the soil, now all he needed was to plant the seed. But he had to step lightly. Even the smallest mistake could prove fatal. "You would think so, wouldn't you?"

And in that moment he turned to the side, quicker than most, and threw the knife. Her lightening reflexes acted immediately and she fired the shot. But by the time the bullet would have reached him, Clint was already gone and the blade landed with the ever-so-present accuracy. It knocked the gun out of the Black Widow's hand and clattered to the floor.

Gun forgotten, she jumped up in the air to prevent Clint from turning her over as he kicked sideways after her legs. The Widow then threw herself forwards, grabbed a hold of Clint's shoulders and proceeded to flip over him. As soon as she landed on her feet, she grabbed a firmer hold of him and used all of her body strength to yank him over her back; using the momentum she had gained to power her move. He landed hard on the floor, the wind knocked out of him. But he shook it off quickly and got to his feet. But she didn't let him have any breaks as she charged at him again. He blocked her fist, grabbed her wrist with one hand while the other was placed on her shoulder joint. She bent, an automatic reflex from her body as it adjusted to the uncomfortable position.

"I have an offer for you," Clint said, while he locked her in the current position.

That didn't faze her though. "Not interested," she muttered, before she managed to swing her other arm around his neck and force him towards the floor. They both rolled a few feet before they broke away from each other, both getting up easily.

"I don't think you understand," Clint breathed out, before ducking under the fist that was directed at his head. He tried to place one himself, but she avoided it just as quickly, and once again tried to land her own hit. He grabbed her arm and pulled it behind her back, locking it in place with his entire body. "I am offering you a way out."

Black Widow slammed her head back into his. The whole world went white for a second and returned just in time for him to see her trying to swipe his feet away. He jumped backwards into a back spring, using his hands to push himself back to his feet. She wasn't surrendering easily, but Clint had expected that. He just had to keep pushing.

From behind her back she produced a small knife and slashed it sideways towards his head. He stepped out to the side, but wasn't quick enough. The thin blade slashed into his bicep and left a small gash in the skin.

She swung the knife upwards and brought it down. Clint put his underarm against hers and stopped the blade before it stabbed him in the chest. She tried to pull away to try again but he got a hold of her wrist and took a firm hold in her hair. Yanking in a girl's hair probably wasn't the smartest idea to get her to listen to him, but right now he needed to pin her. He made sure to yank her head to she could look at him.

"Listen," he ordered with as much authority he could muster. "I was sent here to kill you. Just because I don't succeed doesn't mean they are going to give up."

The red-haired woman looked him dead in the eyes. "I don't expect them to," she muttered through her clenched teeth.

"I know a way for you to start over," Clint continued. She was still trying to press the knife down towards him, a small sweat breaking out on her forehead. "I need you to trust me. There is a place for you and it isn't here." She tried to tackle him with her feet, but he stepped away without releasing his firm grip. "A place where you can be Natasha Romanoff and not the Black Widow. A place without ever worrying about hiding or outsmarting whoever comes for you next."

She glared at him as he spoke her name and if looks could kill he would probably be lying stone dead at that moment. But the look didn't terrify him, like she probably would have thought, and instead he glared back. For a moment they just stood and stared hatefully at each other and the silence wrapped around them like a blanket. The only sound was that of their heavy breathing. Both of their bodies were tired, their muscles burning from the strain, but neither backed down. She pulled against his firm grip to get free, but Clint stubbornly held fast. He wasn't letting go until she saw reason.

But a single drop of sweat rolled down Clint's forehead, pulled by gravity, and dripped into his eye. The small second it took for him to instinctively blink it away was all the distraction she needed. Black Widow brought his arm closer to her head and bit down on the flesh. Clint hissed and was forced to let go of her, though his hand was still tangled in her red hair. She swept his feet away and his body came crashing down. She went down with him, as he still hadn't untangled his hand from her curly hair. They were on the floor again, rolling, but this time they weren't trying to get away from each other. Instead they tried to land punches and kicks, and the Widow desperately tried to plunge the knife into him.

She landed a sharp hook on his chin and while he tried to blink the daze out of his eyes, she sat up on top of him, placing her knees on his shoulders. She had him secured to the floor. He clawed at her upper arms with his fingers and wrapped his legs around her body the best he could in an attempt to stop the knife floating just an inch from his face. His plan had started to back-fire. It was exploding in his face and it was in that moment he wondered if he had made the right decision. But then he remembered what he had seen out there on the street. The look he had spotted on her face, despite of the fact that she tried to hide it. So therefore he took another, final chance; he knew it was now or never.

"Go on," he argued and removed his hands from her arms. He still had his legs around her, but that wasn't going to do much good if she did bring the knife down. She frowned at his incredible stupid move and hesitated. "Do it," he continued. "Once I'm dead, they'll just send in another. And they won't stop until you are dead."

The knife was shaking in her hands. She brought it slightly closer to his exposed throat. The tip was resting on his Adam's apple. She lingered there. It would be easy. One tiny movement and he would be no more.

And he waited for her to move but she stayed in that position. Hands shaking, breathing shaky and quick and her fiery red hair plastered to her face. Clint could see the wheels spinning on her head, her turn to analyze the situation from every angle yet coming up with nothing. He could see her ponder her possibilities, her options, her conflicts, her fate.

She stared into his eyes, puzzled and questioning. She seemed to search his face for his deceit, to spot the truth he was probably hiding underneath the lies. He kept his gaze steady on her and allowed her to see. He opened up for all of his emotions and his sincerity, praying she would see the truth for what it was.

"Are you serious?" she whispered hesitantly.

"Trust me, Romanoff. This is your only chance." Clint kept his voice soft. "Take it or kill me."

 **TBC**


	4. How Did Your Debts Get Paid

**Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : How Did Your Debts Get Paid

 **Author's Note:** Just wanted to take a quick minute to say a great big thank you out to all of you who has reviewed and supported this story so far! It means a lot! :D

Now onward! Things are about to heat up!

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Natasha Romanoff stared down at the man under her.

She had noticed him following her the past few days and knew what he was there for. Admittedly, she had to hand it to the man. He was one of the better ones they had sent yet. That she hadn't even noticed this archer tracking her for two days was a feat not everyone, if any, could claim. She was no fool. She knew who was following her: Hawkeye. But what had bugged her most was that he simply continued to follow her movements instead of doing what they both knew he came for. Perhaps whoever had hired him, didn't want her dead. But out of everyone calling for her head, she couldn't imagine why any of them would want her alive. At least not for more than a few hours. She had ached for him to finally pull his shit together and just put a bullet - or in his case, an arrow - through her head. She was living on borrowed time already.

But when she could finally feel that her time was up and that this was the end, she couldn't simply take it lying down. That went against her very nature and everything she had been taught. Natasha Romanoff wished to die with at least some dignity and always with the last word. If she was to be put down like a dog, she wanted to look her killer in the eye. She wanted to clearly see the one to do it. And she had. And that damn bastard didn't pull the trigger to her freedom.

She didn't know why she hadn't seen the arrow sail towards her but when it didn't, disappoint was all she could feel. She had ventured back to her apartment, feeling the archer's presence. If he didn't have the guts to kill her, she would end the coward herself.

But now everything had been turned upside down. She didn't know what to make of any of it and she searched his face for any sign of deception. Usually she saw straight through anyone and she was exceptionally good at seeing when they were lying to her or trying to manipulate her. But this agent before her showed her nothing but his honesty. His eyes had seemed to change, as if by his own will, to show the warmth he had hidden before. It was a warmth so bright and clear it was astonishing how he could lock it away and it was one no other assassin she had ever seen held. He wanted her to see all of it. It caused her to back down.

Removing the knife from his throat, she quickly stood up and backed away, allowing the archer to pick himself off of the floor. While he did that, Natasha went over to where her gun had fallen from her hand and picked it up; relishing the reassurance it gave her. She didn't aim it at Hawkeye, who now stood, watching her warily. But she kept it visible and held it tightly enough to still carry over the threat.

"Talk," she ordered. She made sure none of the ridiculous hope that was starting to flare inside of her showed in her voice or face.

"You know of SHIELD?" he started out.

She shrugged. She knew it had stopped several operations from the Red Room along with those from various terrorist groups and drug cartels from the criminal world. She knew about as much of it as the rest of the criminals did.

"An US intelligence agency specializing in covert ops around the globe," Hawkeye quickly explained. His voice then became gentler and persuasive as he began his next sentence. "It's a way out of this mess and for you to start over. A chance to do good in this world."

"Who would have known the great Hawkeye could work for the good guys?" Natasha wryly smiled. It seemed a little comical that one of the deadliest assassins out there now played for those who sought to do good. And he wanted her to come and join. It seemed so outrageous it was laughable.

"You know my name; I'm flattered," Hawkeye gave a wide smirk of his own. Perhaps he saw the irony of it all too. "But it's agent Clint Barton now."

"Natasha Romanoff," she answered before she could stop herself. Looked like she had already committed herself to this foolish job offer. She took a deep breath. The kind of breath you took before a high plunge into the cold ocean. "What do I have to do?"

"For now? Just follow me."

* * *

They quickly ran through Moscow towards one of Clint's own apartments where they could lay low for a few hours until he decided what their next move was.

He knew he had to call Phil; let him know what he had done. While they jumped, swung and rolled across the rooftops, Clint let his mind drift to how he could explain this to his handler. Truth was, he hadn't really thought this far. He had focused all his energy on how to convince the Black Widow to join their side that he hadn't even wondered on how to convince Phil Coulson to let her in. What if all the man had seen in the archer wasn't what he saw when he looked at the Widow? What if Clint was the only one to see it?

He realized now that perhaps the toughest challenge wasn't Natasha Romanoff. It was SHIELD. He needed to take one step at a time. First he would talk to Phil. Then they would handle SHIELD together.

Now that he had picked up his bow and held it in his hand again, he felt its cool comfort and it gave him strength.

Clint spotted the rangy apartment and felt the trepidation rising in his chest. Judgment time was almost upon them. It was a one-room apartment that had been standing in Moscow almost since the city had been built and not much had changed since then other than the reinforced locks Barton had placed himself. The floor was cracked and dirty and the walls were only grey plaster with a few holes here and there. But it had easy roof access and cheap rent with no questions asked. A perfect hide-out should he ever need it.

Romanoff looked around skeptically and after the quick survey of the place, her green eyes landed upon Clint and she raised a delicate eyebrow. The archer swore he saw amusement in there somewhere.

"Judge all you want, Romanoff."

"I'm not saying anything," she answered coldly and without much emotion. Clint still took it as a win that she was even willing to speak to him at all. It showed her devotion to this.

"Oh, you made your point; loud and clear. Make yourself at home. I need to make a call."

Romanoff placed herself by the window in the corner. She leaned up against the wall and gazed out on the city streets, while she swirled the small knife between her fingers. A nervous habit, he suspected. When he was certain, she wouldn't kill him or run as soon as he turned his back, he walked to the other end of the room and turned on his comm. unit again. It started to buzz quietly like it always did when it was on.

"Coulson. This is Hawkeye, come in."

A second passed. Then Phil's voice echoed out. " _Finally. I was about to sent a search party out for you_." Though the words were light-hearted, Clint could trace the underlying worry. He felt kinda bad for staying radio silent this long. Phil must have been pacing the floor for the past hours, judging by his voice now.

"Just cancel that. I'm fine."

" _Is it done?_ "

"Uh … that is a bit more complicated. How fast can you get to my location?"

" _What's going on, Barton?_ " Phil's voice was a mixture of suspicion and concern, a rather impressive feat to make.

"Kinda hard to explain," Clint said as his eyes drifted to the redheaded assassin whose attention had drifted to his conversation. "Uh, just get here, alright?"

There was only silence on the other end and archer feared their connection had been lost. Then he heard the exasperated sigh escape Phil's lips. " _Give me an hour._ "

* * *

After he had briefly explained to the Widow that his handler would arrive, Clint spent the hour physically preparing and steeling himself for the shitstorm that was undoubtedly about to hit him.

Romanoff spent hers watching the archer wiggle nervously under the pressure. She probably enjoyed this. Perhaps Clint would have too had it not been for the fact that he was too worried about receiving another breathing hole in his body.

And even that punishment wouldn't be hard enough for what he had done.

He stopped his thoughts instantly. Was he backing out of this? Was he _scared_? No. That had to end this instant. He was no coward. That, he had always known. He made a decision. He made the _right_ decision. Now he just had to stand by it and make other people see it too.

A gentle knock on the door pulled him back to the apartment. His handler's voice resonated through the thin wooden slab. "Barton?"

"Yeah it's me," Clint called back and the handle rotated with the confirmation.

Phil walked through the doorway but he only made it about five steps before he stopped completely dead in his tracks. His eyes had been fixated upon the archer when he first entered but upon seeing he was unharmed they had landed on the person by the corner window. His mouth fell agape and his whole body stood frozen in time.

Any other day and any other situation, Clint would have found it amazingly funny. But the tension was so thick it stole the breath from anyone present in the room. There was nothing to laugh about now.

To his credit, though, Phil didn't yell or try to shoot Romanoff. He stared at her with apprehension and suspicion and anger, like he physically had to contain himself from throwing his body at her. While he might not go after her, Clint wasn't completely safe from that action.

"Leave this room," Phil ordered in a low voice. He was restraining himself.

Romanoff shifted her piercing gaze from one agent to the other. Then she tore herself free from the wall and entered the bathroom with the cracked white tiles and closed the door behind her. Without a fuss or a struggle, much to the archer's surprise and disappointment.

She left Clint alone with his fuming handler and a devastating silence.

 **TBC**


	5. Cause My Soul Has Lost Its Way

**Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : Cause My Soul Has Lost Its Way

 **Author's Note:** Another update from me. I am going on vacation and won't be able to post again until next week's sunday. Do not fret, I will post as quickly as I can afterwards. Until then, enjoy this one!

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

It wasn't until they heard the shower bursting to life and the water hitting the tiles that the crushing silence was broken. And when it was, Clint only wished for it to return.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" Phil exploded, his voice loud enough for the whole block to hear. His eyes were harder and more determined than Clint had ever seen them. His handler started pacing around on the floor, his body unable to stand still with fury.

"Of all the irresponsible, reckless, immature, ridiculous, stupid-ass decisions you have ever made! What on earth persuaded you into making this one? Do you have any idea what you've done? Do you? This could not only end your career, but possibly your life! What were you thinking?!"

Clint just stood there and let him ramble. He felt like a child being scolded for doing something bad. He had never felt this small in his entire life. "Look, I know you're pissed, but -"

"Pissed off doesn't even begin to cover it!"

"Even so," Clint fought to keep his voice level and calm. He just needed Phil to see what he did. "I just need you to listen -"

Phil didn't even seem to hear him. "You were supposed to kill her!"

Clint crossed his arms defiantly, starting to feel the attitude he had been born with creeping in. He was getting sick of this game real quick.

"Well, I didn't."

"No, clearly," Coulson's voice had taken on a dangerous tone. "She's supposed to be lying dead in a morgue by now!"

"I couldn't do it, alright?" Clint yelled, his voice rising to the level as his handler's. "I wanted to, but I couldn't!"

"Are you high? Did you take something?"

"What?" The archer stared at Coulson like he was insane. Where the hell did that absolutely ludicrous idea come from?

"That is the only explanation for your actions. I have no idea what you were thinking or why you thought you had the authority to do so!"

"You know I won't do that!"

"Then what has gotten you so hell bent on saving her life?!" Phil gestured to the closed bathroom door, his face red and disraught.

"Why are you so hell bent not to?"

"Because she's a villain!"

"So am I!" The words flew out of Clint's mouth before he could stop them. His loud words seemed to echo in the deafening silence that followed afterwards.

All the fight left Coulson's shoulders and his eyes turned soft with sympathy. He opened his mouth to speak, but Clint beat him to it, his voice low and defeated.

"I kill people, Phil. It's not glamorous or heroic. But it is my job. And it's my duty. I don't necessarily like it, but it's what I do and it's what I'm good at. I lie and I kill and I hurt people. Last time I checked, that's a villain."

"You don't hurt people, Clint. Not those who don't deserve it. By my book, that's a hero … not a villain," Phil had lowered his voice too to a gentle tone, but somehow his words struck harder now than before.

Clint huffed humorlessly at the sentiment. "I'm never going to be some Captain America …"

"No," Phil said and put his hands on Clint's shoulders and looked him dead in the eye, his own eyes caring and kind now. He looked convinced of everything he said, like there was no other truth than that. He truly believed every word. "But you are Clint Barton and that's damn near enough. You will never be a villain."

Clint lowered his eyes and took in a deep breath. His handler spoke with such conviction that the archer almost believed his words. If there was hope for him, then there would be so for her. When he spoke again he didn't let his gaze falter. "Neither will she."

"How can you be so sure?" Phil searched his face for answers. He still didn't see but he was so close.

"I saw it. I trust my instincts, Phil. She wants a second chance. She needs one."

"She's a stone cold assassin, Clint."

"So was I when you brought me in," the archer argued. He could tell he was starting to win Phil over because now he was just giving piss-poor excuses.

"That's different. You started by the time you were 19. She was trained her whole life. You were a child once, however short that was … She wasn't."

"Trust me on this one, Phil. She is not the brainwashed assassin you believe her to be. There is something more." Time for the coup de grâce. "You have asked me time and time again to trust you. I have. Now, I'm asking you to trust me."

Phil sighed deeply like the whole weight of the world rested on his shoulders. He ran a hand across his face, debating with himself on what to say. Clint waited anxiously for the next words that came out of his mouth.

"Alright, kid. I trust you."

* * *

Phil had left shortly after that.

They agreed to meet tomorrow at the tarmac just outside of Moscow where their ride home would be waiting for them. There was a lot to be done. Most of all, it involved a call to let SHIELD know they would bring another living passenger. The call Phil had to make to Director Fury was not one Clint envied having. But he knew at least now that his handler would have his back and support him on it. And that was one thing that meant the world to him.

Romanoff emerged from the shower a few minutes after Coulson had closed the door, when Clint was heedlessly fiddling with the small gash she had inflicted during their fight, deciding whether or not he needed to do anything about it. It wasn't deep and he could barely feel its sting, so his conclusion was that it could be left alone for now. He looked up as he heard her approach. Her damp hair that was beginning to curl naturally as it dried was the only sign that she had even taken a shower earlier. "Be careful next time you go swinging your knife all over the place, would you? Innocent people get hurt."

His words were light as was his voice but his eyes tracked her every single movement as she walked across the floor, his body tense and alert. She noticed.

"You are wary of me," she stated openly.

"Why wouldn't I be? You've killed several of our agents."

"I'm not going to apologize if that's what you're looking for."

"Don't bother. I didn't know any of them anyway," he said it off-handedly, like he hadn't seen the body bags that had returned instead of the agents that left the base. The awkward silence that followed was too much for Clint to bear.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He took her silence as a yes and continued.

"What do you want with Vladimir Angeloff?"

"He had a way for me to disappear from their radar," she quickly answered. "I would be out of Russia without a trace before they realized I was gone."

Clint thought he should be surprised at the knowledge that she was already trying to leave, but based on everything he had seen so far, he wasn't. It only cemented his belief that she truly was ready for a change. He was more certain of it now than ever before.

"Your turn," Clint nodded towards her. At her questioning stare, he smirked. "There must be something you want to ask me. You answered mine, let me return the favor."

He expected her to ask him about SHIELD, about the new life that was waiting for her when they landed in Washington. God knew he had tons of questions back when he had first stepped foot in SHIELD headquarters. But what she asked threw him off guard momentarily.

"Why?" She didn't need to clarify what she was asking: Why didn't he kill her like he was supposed to.

When he had gotten over the initial shock however, he didn't hesitate in his answer. "Because I believe in second chances. And redemption."

"Second chances are an illusion," she was quick to counter. "Either you don't screw up or you live with the consequences."

"But you do believe in redemption? Aren't that two sides of the same coin?" Clint argued.

"You can redeem yourself without changing. Seconds chances mean what you did as yourself wasn't good enough and you have to change. And I don't believe people can change."

"Second chances aren't given so you can change. They are given so you can show who you really are and what you're capable of."

"You think I haven't shown what I'm capable of yet?" Romanoff asked. Her eyes sparkled with a dare to challenge her.

Clint didn't rise to the bait. Instead he just answered honestly: "I think you haven't shown who you really are yet."

Romanoff looked away and instead focused on the same window she had been staring out off earlier. Clint didn't know whether it was out of shame or disagreement or something else and he never got the chance to ask. Because her brow furrowed at something outside.

"They followed us," she whispered. The archer rose from the chair and stared out the other window to see what she meant. Dark-clad people were moving in the shadows down the street towards the apartment. He had noticed some of the figures earlier when he had followed the Widow, but he had never thought much of it. Every time he was convinced he saw someone, they were gone so fast he believed it to be a trick of the mind. But it was one of the reasons he had brought her to this run-down apartment. No matter the case, he was a fool to dismiss it so quickly.

"Yeah, I noticed them earlier," he said. "Friends of yours?"

"Not anymore." The venom in her voice was enough to kill.

"Guess this whole thing about defecting is going as quietly as you thought then," Clint commented, ignoring the dirty look she threw him. He wasn't exactly shocked to know that the Red Room was coming for her the minute they knew she was leaving them.

He moved to grab his weapons. He adjusted his quiver onto his back, checked his remaining gun clips while he placed his gun in the thigh-holster. Next to him, Natasha did the same. With a nod to signal that she was ready, Clint took a hold of his bow.

Time to get out of here.

 **TBC**


	6. With the Hounds of Hell Coming After You

**Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : With the Hounds of Hell Coming After You

 **Author's Note:** I am back from a week of sunny fun and can now post another chapter! This is where the action part really comes in, so I hope you will enjoy. And perhaps leave a little review when you're done reading? That would really make my day!

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Clint felt the bones break underneath his tight grip as he broke the neck of his assailant. He released the limp body from his headlock and let it fall to the asphalt in the alley where it landed with a heavy thump. He quickly wiped the sweat from his brow.

They had come swiftly by the time he and Romanoff discovered they had been compromised. Say what you want, the Red Room didn't hesitate or take chances. Several Russian agents had assaulted them in the hall and they had fought with tooth and nail to break through the constant wave of black-clad attackers. Clint had watched in some fascination as the Widow took down half of the group in record time with fluent catlike movements. He truly began to understand why she had grown so fearsome as she killed relentlessly and spared none that came within her grasp. She seemed to take no respite as she flowed from one attacker to the next. She landed a hit to one guy's face, sailed over to kick another's shins and continued to pounce on top of the next in line, all of it without mercy. She was a force to be reckoned with and Clint would lie if he said he wasn't impressed.

He was able to hold his own as they made their way down and into the dark alleyway where more was waiting for them. There weren't many of them and Romanoff was on them before Clint could even blink and a second later he joined the fight. They dispatched of those quickly enough. The ground was littered with black bodies, some chests still moving and others still for the rest of eternity.

While they stood there for a minute, breathing heavily and regaining their bearings, Romanoff said what Clint had already suspected. "More will come."

"Yeah, we need to move."

"We need to avoid the streets. They have eyes everywhere," Romanoff said.

That meant the roofs were off limits too. Clint swore under his breath and weighted their options. There weren't many to choose from. They wouldn't make it to the SHIELD safe house; not until it was too late anyway. It was too far and through too many streets. It would take them the rest of the night to get there if they tried and even that was too big of a risk to take. He eyed the sewer and almost shuddered at the thought. Underground it was then.

"How well is your sense of smell?" Clint asked out loud.

Romanoff glared at him with a frown until she followed his line of sight. Her face turned sour. At least she was going to enjoy this just as little as he was. He put his hands on the rusty bars of the grating and pulled it open with a great heave. He could feel the moist algae, slick, between his fingers. He held it open and gestured for Romanoff to enter.

"Ladies first," he said sweetly.

He almost openly winced at the glare he received. Romanoff took a big gulp of air before she plunged into the sewers below. Clint quickly followed, closing the grating behind them.

* * *

The smell had been far worse than Clint could have possibly imagined.

They had waded through the murky, stinky water for hours until none of them was quite certain where exactly in Moscow they were. It was a unanimous decision to go above ground. Neither Clint nor Romanoff had wished to stay down there for more time than was absolutely necessary. The battle to resist throwing up had been a constant one and Clint was certain the stink would continue to linger in his skin and his hair until the day he died. It was haunt his nightmares forever. It wasn't the first sewer he had to cower in, but it was by far his worst. He vowed to himself the minute they were back onto the pavement that it would also be his last. Never again. He would rather fight a hundred Russian agents than go through that again. The only joy he got out of it was the slight green color Romanoff's pale skin had gained. She had given him a sharp look when she spotted him smirking.

He had sought out the first rundown payphone he had spotted after that. He dialed the number to Phil's phone and after giving his agent pass code, he waited for it to get picked up. It rung several times and Clint knew the more time they wasted, the higher the chances were of getting spotted and then their little stink-run had been for nothing. He eyed the empty street warily, the same way Romanoff did beside him. It was weird how he trusted her to have his back.

He sighed in relief when Phil's voice finally came over the line.

" _Coulson_."

"Phil, it's me," Clint said.

" _Clint, what's wrong? Where are you calling from?_ "

"A payphone," Clint quickly explained. "Listen, we have a problem."

" _Talk to me_." One thing he liked about Phil was there was no beating around the bush.

"We're not going to make it to the airport by morning."

" _Where are you? We can arrange for an extraction._ "

"Unless it happens within the next 2 minutes that isn't going to work. I don't know where we are exactly and that's kinda the point. Hold the plane ready. We'll get there as soon as we can."

" _Clint_ _…_ "

"I'm fine. We're fine. Just … a little trouble. We need to go dark," Clint assured, knowing full well it did nothing to lessen the worry he heard on the other end.

Silence was the only sound for a few seconds. Then: " _Be careful_."

"I know."

Clint hung up.

* * *

They ran after that. As fast and as far as their legs could carry them, they ran for the nearest fire escape and made it to the roof, where they sailed across slippery tiles, wooden boards and flat cement.

The sky was beginning to lighten as the sun gently peeked out in the horizon. The clouds from yesterday, which never truly seemed to disappear in this country, were still lingering higher up and were colored a mixture of pink, orange and red from the sun's first rays. Dawn spread its warming light on the two assassins as they raced on the rooftops.

Clint's breathing was hitched and labored as his lungs burned and his legs ached. Sweat shined on his forehead and made his clothes stick to his skin uncomfortably. Harsh, cold wind tore across his face and played with his hair while it tore in the fabric of his dark shirt. The ground was hard underneath his body as he rolled after a jump and the steel of gratings and old flagpoles was cool in his hands when he grabbed them to swing himself forward or over an obstacle. His body demanded a break.

He almost smiled openly at the feeling. It allowed him to focus solely on the next jump or the next move and forget everything else that existed in the world. The Widow running next to him; the assassins that was probably tracking their movements; SHIELD. There was only his own personal obstacle course and nothing else.

For a moment he was free.

And then he glanced behind them to a sight that caused his racing heart to falter. Several Red Room agents in their black clothes trailing along after them on the rooftops. They had been found.

Romanoff had noticed it too and even though it seemed impossible, she picked up speed and Clint did the same. Before them rose the small brick wall that signaled the ending of the roof they were running on and the beginning of another. But the gap between the two was long. Clint estimated it to be around 17 feet. A difficult jump, but not impossible. The sound of gunfire echoed behind them and bullets started flying past their ears. They didn't have a choice.

Romanoff turned her body around to fire a few of her own shots, taking down two of the agents. Clint fired two arrows in rapid succession, killing two more. They fell with the black shafts sticking up from their heads. The rest kept going.

"Keep running!" he yelled as they neared the ledge. He accelerated even more.

When they were close enough, Clint adjusted his steps so they would fit and his last three strides were wide and landed hard down onto the roof. His foot landed on the wall and he used all the momentum he had gained to propel himself forwards. Then he was airborne. He was sailing through the air and saw the wide drop to the alley underneath. Then he landed.

The gravel dug through his clothes and clung to his skin as he rolled to a complete stop on the other side and he gasped at their sting. He quickly rose from the crouch he had landed in and looked up to see Romanoff make the jump. Like him, she soared across but came to the realization just as he did.

She wasn't going to make it.

At least not fully. Her body slammed into the bricks of the building and her hands frantically grasped the slim ledge. But it was smooth and cool and she quickly lost her grip.

Clint threw himself forward to catch her, but it was too late. She fell a few feet down before managing to grab onto a rusty pipe sticking out from the wall. It protested loudly, creaking as it held her weight. She gritted her teeth at the pressure on her shoulders.

"Give me your hand!" Clint yelled as he stretched his body over the ledge to reach her. He stretched out his own hand towards her. Romanoff didn't let go of the pipe. Instead she tried to pull herself up to safety, but the small metal pipe groaned and shook as it became looser when she tried to gain momentum. The assassin gripped it harder and tighter as if it could help stabilize it.

"Let me help you," Clint tried again and stretched his arm longer. He pointedly ignored the gunfire that was coming closer. He could see she was debating what to do. She couldn't simply put her trust on strangers, not even when her life was at stake.

"Natasha, you have to trust me," he softly tried.

She looked at him then and he could clearly see the doubt swirling within her. The pipe creaked again and then it gave out. Just as it did, though, Natasha let go and clasped her hands around Clint's arm. He grunted with the effort and the sudden weight that threatened to pull his shoulders out of their sockets. He prayed that they wouldn't get hit by one of the bullets that whizzed past his head, as he slowly began to pull the Russian assassin up.

She assisted as much as she could and soon Clint had her over the edge. They landed in a heap onto the gravel roof. For a second they just stared at each other, breathing heavily. A bullet flew by, passing Clint's head by a hairsbreadth. It pulled him back to their current situation.

 _Right. Russian ninjas._

Romanoff got up from the ground and as Clint watched her rise, something behind her caught his eye. He saw the barrel aimed at her back. He had no idea or plan on what to do. He didn't know why he did it. His body moved by itself. He only reacted.

He tore her away from the spot she was standing on.

Then his side exploded in pain.

 **TBC**


	7. When the Fires Are Consuming You

**Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : When the Fires Are Consuming You

 **Author's Note:** The stakes are rising! On with chapter 7! Please enjoy and leave a review on the way out, that would be absolutely splendid!

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Clint grunted as his body collapsed and he hit the asphalt.

He felt the blood seeping out from the wound in his stomach, running down his side to pool onto the ground. It wasn't his first gunshot wound, and it probably wouldn't be his last, but it never ceased to amaze him just how much it hurt every time. His side burned and throbbed mercilessly. The sky above his head was swirling and spinning, mixing the light colors of orange and blue together. He blinked once and then everything was stationary again.

His hand instinctively reached for the gushing wound where it tried to stop any more blood from leaving his body. Clint groaned at the pain that followed that movement. He felt underneath his back for an exit wound but came up empty.

Great. That meant the bullet would still be somewhere inside his body.

The sound of rapid gunfire tore him out of his painful world and he was able to focus on his surroundings again. He blinked the haze away from his vision to see Romanoff crouching behind a vent, her gun clutched tightly in her hand. She fired off several shots in succession of each other. She received the response instantly as she had to duck behind her cover to avoid getting hit. The bullets landed in the asphalt around her feet and one ended near Clint's own body where it sprayed the gravel into the air. They were still under attack.

His eyes frantically scanned the roof until they fell on his bow lying a few feet away from him. He had dropped it once he got shot. He inched towards it slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain. He grasped it, reached around to find an arrow and fitted it onto the string with shaking hands. Then he rose to his knees. He pulled back the taut string, biting down the exclamation of pain that threatened to roll past his lips. His muscles coiled and his wound flamed angrily at the motion of pulling back the arrow before he released it. It flew through the air before imbedding itself in the skull of a Russian agent. The first one was the hardest. He got better at ignoring his body demands of rest once he nocked the second arrow and soon he was firing fluently again. He took down several of the agents, each falling with a black arrow protruding from their head or chest. It didn't last long though because soon his quiver was empty and the Widow's gun clicked empty shortly after.

Their attackers realized it quickly. A few kept shooting, keeping the two assassins locked in their hiding positions, while the others made the jump. One didn't make it and as his body flew down towards the pavement, the rest landed gracefully onto the rooftop. Romanoff didn't hesitate as she engaged them in hand-to-hand combat immediately, kicking and punching in her fluent manner. Those she couldn't distract or reach turned their attention to the wounded archer.

Normally it wouldn't have much of a problem being attacked by three assailants at once. It would be a piece of cake. But this time his attackers took great advantage of his injury, making sure they struck it as many times as they could. Clint blocked most of the hits aimed for his side. But they landed more punches on his body than they should and he gave out less than he used to. A parade, a kick to a man's kidneys followed by a hard punch in his face took down the last attacker and the archer was left swaying and breathing heavily.

Romanoff had dispatched of the rest, which lay motionless at her feet and she moved towards Clint. Wordlessly, she draped his arm over her shoulder and worked as a crutch, though she was anything but gentle.

As she swiftly dragged him towards the nearest exit that led to the street, a realization dawned upon Clint. She could easily have left him there and made her getaway while she made him the sacrificial lamb.

Instead, she had stayed.

* * *

Natasha made sure her back was clear, before she entered through the door to the abandoned apartment complex she had found.

Inside, there was no furniture and the entire room was completely bare except for the supporting pillars placed here and there. Barton was leaning against one of the walls she had dumped him at.

Natasha had gone to set out a false trail and buy them some time, leaving small blood smears on some of the other buildings in the neighborhood so the Red Room would believe they had moved on. For now, they would be safe and remain undiscovered while they dealt with the gunshot wound. She dumped the ratty blanket she had found in an alley next to his body, which seemed to tear him out of his slumbering state.

The archer looked remarkably well for someone who just got shot. His skin had gone pale and the lines in his face were strained with pain. Blood covered the right side of his abdomen and had run down to coat the top of his trousers too, but he was aware and alert, mostly anyway. It led Natasha to believe the bullet hadn't hit anything vital.

"Lie down," she instructed while she started tearing the thin blanket to smaller pieces. It might not be the most sanitary bandage they could use, but it was clean enough and suitable until they got to safety.

He did as she ordered and lay down with a small wince that he tried to hide. "There's no exit wound, so it's still in there," he supplied nonchalantly while Natasha wiped her hands and pulled the fabric of his shirt away from the hole.

She nodded at the information and got to work. The wound itself was round with ragged edges from where the skin had been torn and fresh blood still tickled out slowly. She felt around on his back to see if she could feel the bullet underneath the skin, but all she felt was muscle. So the bullet hadn't imbedded itself too deeply then.

Natasha pulled out her knife. Her eyes drifted to Hawkeye's. She had to dig out the bullet, otherwise infection would set in and that was not something they could deal with right now. But they had nothing to numb the area and nothing to take the pain. It would hurt. She didn't know why she sought the permission from him first, but she did. His grey eyes were determined and hard. He knew what was going to happen and he nodded his head once as if saying that he understood. He grabbed one of the torn blanket pieces and folded it into his mouth.

"Do it," he whispered through the gag and pointedly looked up at the ceiling.

The knife touched the skin and broke it as she made the hole bigger so she could access the bullet. Hawkeye's body turned as taut as his bowstring as his muscles contracted with the sudden agony and his teeth clamped down on the gag so hard his jaw tightened. She continued on relentlessly.

As soon as the wound was a little bigger, more blood oozed out of it to mix onto the floor. Groans and grunts erupted from Barton's throat as Natasha's lean fingers searched around for the small round hiding in there somewhere. It wasn't long before they ran into something metal and she pulled it out, ignoring Barton's pained moans. She let it fall to the floor with a small clink and took one of the fabric pieces, rolled it to a small bundle and pressed it into the wound. Barton let out a harsh exhale through his nose. His eyes were clenched shut. Still, he hadn't succumbed to the pain he must be feeling or even yelled out. Natasha was slightly impressed by it. She had seen better men tremble and scream with lesser wounds.

When the cloth ball was soaked through with blood, Natasha made another to replace it, ditching the drenched one on the ground. She continued doing that for the next half hour until the bleeding had partially stopped. By the time she started wrapping the rest of the blanket strips around Barton's abdomen, his breathing had returned slightly to normal but his forehead still held a light sheen of sweat.

Natasha made sure the makeshift bandage would hold and when there was nothing more to be done she leaned against the wall tiredly. She rubbed absently on the blood on her hands and smeared it wider across her palm. She watched it dry while Barton's heavy breathing filled her eardrums. Both of them were silent. This was the first chance of breath they had had since fleeing the apartment, so none of them were particularly willing to break the quiet respite they had gotten now. But there was something nagging at Natasha's mind; a question she couldn't shake. She had been hesitant to ask before and wasn't much for it now, but she had to know. If she wasn't even going to make it to her second chance she might as well know why she had gotten it in the first place.

"Why did you save me?" she asked. She didn't even glance at him, but she knew he was still awake.

"I already told you," was his quiet response.

"No. Why did you save _me_?" Why did she out of all people deserve mercy?

"The look in your eyes," he simply stated. She looked down at him with a frown and he elaborated. "You wore the same look I did before I joined SHIELD; filled with hopelessness and fear. Fear about what was coming and how it was all going to end."

Natasha swallowed. She hadn't realized she had openly worn those feelings. If he could read it on a complete stranger's face, who knows who else might have seen them too. "I am not worth saving," she said.

His eyes turned towards the ceiling, away from her. "Neither was I. Or at least I didn't believe I was. But I got a new chance. One I did not deserve, trust me." He laughed out the last bit hesitantly. Then he looked at her again. "I know this isn't the life you want. Not deep down. You are not a monster."

"Killing is the only thing I know how to do. The only thing I'm good at," she admitted quietly.

"I know. So am I. But now we can do it for the right people. We can do it for the right reasons. We can do it while we're saving the world."

Natasha looked the archer. It seemed an absurd ideology to have in their line of work. "Do you think of it as saving the world?"

He huffed as an answer and shook his head. "No," he smiled. He seemed to share her view of the idea. The smile vanished from his lips as he spoke once more. "I think of it as repaying everything I owe and that is just as good."

She had no answer to that. Silence fell upon the two assassins once again and this time none of them broke it. Barton sighed heavily as he wallowed in the fatigue that small amateur surgery had caused. He clenched his eyes shut and breathed loudly through his nose. At first it was calming high breaths that flew through his nostrils, but soon their volume fell slightly and evolved into something more relaxed. His breath evened out and his body turned limp, his head tilting slightly to the side as he fell asleep.

Natasha turned her head away from the archer to give him as much privacy as she could. She suspected he wasn't high on being this vulnerable in front of strangers.

She had hauled him out of there. She had dragged him from that rooftop and to safety because she needed him alive. She needed him to be at least present when she walked on board that plane otherwise she wasn't going to make it. If she arrived alone, she suspected she would be shot on sight, right there on the tarmac and her chance would be over before it even begun. That was the only reason she saved him.

Or so she told herself.

Natasha wasn't a fool and she wasn't blind. She knew exactly what had happened out there. Clint Barton had saved her. He hadn't just pushed her out of the way, saving her life on that roof in the blink of an eye. He had saved her in every sense of the word. And that created a debt she knew she would never be able to pay back.

She gazed down on the sleeping assassin, his body twitching slightly every now and then. The words slipped over her lips involuntarily. She whispered them to deaf ears, but still they escaped without meaning to and yet she didn't try to stop them.

"Thank you."

 **TBC**


	8. Nowhere To Run

**Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : Nowhere To Run

 **Author's Note:** And so we have another chapter! This one is perhaps a bit shorter than the last one, but hopefully just as good! Enjoy!

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Phil stood at the end of the black quinjet's ramp, his hands curled up tightly in his pockets. His sunglasses blocked out the sunlight filtering through the cloud cover as he gazed out over the large, bare tarmac. The plane's engines were rumbling behind him.

To anyone watching he might have looked stoic and relaxed, but the truth was he was far from calm. His set jaw had begun to ache from being tightened for so long as he anxiously waited. They were already hours behind their schedule and were supposed to have left Russia by now. But they couldn't leave. Not yet.

"Sir. We can't wait much longer," the pilot said and joined him by the ramp, his helmet already on. He wasn't impatient, but he was afraid of what Fury might do when they finally took off and Phil didn't blame him. But they had to wait a little longer.

"Let me worry about the higher-ups, Jameson," Phil ordered. "Just keep the engine running."

The pilot nodded and disappeared back to the cockpit again. The handler checked his watch again for what had to be the 100th time during the past hours. Clint should have showed up by now. Whatever had happened, he should have been there. It was driving Phil crazy. He knew his agent was more than capable to handle himself out there. He had done so for years, even without SHIELD as a backup. But Clint wouldn't be this late unless something bad had happened. At least, he should have taken up contact again if they were behind schedule.

Phil wasn't just anxious about the archer's safety. He was anxious about who showed up with him. This plan to bring in the Black Widow and train her to be an operative was absolutely ludicrous. But he said he trusted Clint on this and he did. He had made a promise and he intended to keep it. Which was why he had made the call to Fury to let him know they brought back a prisoner and possible asset. It had been a long conversation, one that didn't end well. But he had talked the Director into hearing Barton out and at least not shoot the Widow as soon as they landed. Phil had taken that as a victory.

Tires squeaking brought him back to the present where he saw an old rotten car racing towards them. As it got closer he could make out the two figures inside. Phil smiled and let out a breath of relief. To think he had doubted.

"Ready the plane! We leave now!"

* * *

The plane ride back to the States turned out to be one of the most awkward ones Phil had ever had. The tension was thick enough to stop a bullet if it needed to.

The few agents in the cargo hold constantly sent bitter and apprehensive glances in Romanoff's direction. To her credit though, she didn't spare them a single one back. She ignored them completely and sat stiffly in her seat, gazing intently on the wall opposite her like it held all the answers she needed.

Clint wasn't talking much either, which was perhaps what shocked Phil the most. The agent had taken a seat next to his handler. But he had his head turned to the cockpit where he stared out of the windshield on the blue sky as it sped by. He had one arm wrapped protectively around his midsection and the other loosely holding his bow on his lap. He sported a few bruises and cuts, just like the Widow a few seats away. Phil knew they had had to fight their way out to get to the airport, so that was no surprise, but he suspected there was more than Clint was hiding from him.

But he didn't try and ask, knowing as things were he probably wouldn't get a straight answer. It was a conversation for later.

Soon they reached Washington airspace and touched down in the SHIELD hangar. Phil got up from his seat and watched as Clint and Romanoff did the same. The time for judgment had come. Clint raised his chin as if steeling himself for what was about to come. There wasn't a hint of fear or trepidation present in his eyes. The grey orbs were just hard and ready.

The Widow, however, was a closed book. Nothing in her posture or face gave any hint of what she was thinking or planning. Phil couldn't read what was going on inside the redhead. Not even when the ramp lowered to reveal what Phil could only call a small army waiting outside in the hangar, all clad in black tactical suits and with automatic rifles in their hands.

As Romanoff made her way down the ramp, all of the weapons were raised and pointed at the Russian assassin.

"Natasha Romanoff! Place your hands on top of your head and get on the ground slowly!" one of the men ordered loudly.

She curtly raised an eyebrow at the whole charade then slowly did as she was told. When she lay face down on the ground, her hands above her turned head, the leader of the taskforce stepped forward and secured her hands behind her back with a zip tie around her wrists. She took all of it calmly and without a single twitch in her features.

Clint followed Romanoff down the ramp as she was raised to her feet by two agents. As soon as his feet touched the ground half of the guns shifted to his direction.

"That includes you, agent Barton," the agent coolly spoke again.

Despite Clint's shocked expression, it was Phil who opened his mouth first. "What?"

"We have orders to withhold Ms Romanoff and Agent Barton as hostiles pending the council's evaluation."

"Agent Barton is not a hostile or a threat!" Phil argued.

"I'm just following orders, agent," the leader said nonchalantly, as he watched his men surround the archer.

"Yeah, whose orders?" Phil stepped closer to the man, keeping his gaze hard and threatening. "I wanna talk to your superior."

"Phil, forget it," Clint's voice tiredly said and it drew the handler's attention back to his charge, who was slowly getting down on his knees. Clint only shrugged. "It's okay. Let it go."

"Clint …" This wasn't right and he knew it.

"It's fine," Barton roughly said and nodded his head to show his acceptance.

He proceeded to lie down the same way Romanoff had and allowed the agents around him to grab his arms and yank them behind his back. Phil didn't miss the way he winced at the rough treatment and the way his face contorted in a flinch as he was heaved back up again. Worry instantly settled in Phil's stomach and replaced everything else. There was definitely something the archer was hiding from him.

As he stood there dumbfounded and watched Clint being escorted away with the Widow in tow, his eyes fell on something small on the floor where Clint had been forced to lie.

It was drops of blood.

 **TBC**


	9. Were You So Afraid

**Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : Were You So Afraid

 **Author's Note:** A little Clint and Phil bonding in this one! I hope you will enjoy and review your thoughts afterwards!

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

"You got a few hours, Coulson," the security chief gently explained. He was the head of the cell blocks in the maximum security area, where Phil found himself now.

He found it kind of funny to know that maximum security probably couldn't hold in neither Romanoff nor Barton should any of them decide to break out. It would slow them down perhaps, but not hold them in. He nodded gratefully at the commander as the buzzer alerted it was safe to enter. He stalked through the dark hallway down towards Barton's cell, his steps echoing in the empty space.

He passed Romanoff's cell that was right next to it and couldn't resist taking a look through the large two-way mirror that took up most of the iron door. He didn't know what he expected but all he saw was the assassin sitting much the same way as she had on the plane: sitting on the slim sleeping cot, staring emptily ahead. Her clothes had been removed to only the simplest of things: A thin shirt and pants. Her shoes had been taken too.

Her green eyes shifted to him as she felt him near. He had passed her cell before he could figure out what the look she had sent him meant. Then he found himself in front of Clint's cell door. There he ran his ID badge through the scanner where it beeped a single time and placed his hand on the identification pad next to it. A loud buzz sounded and Phil opened the iron door.

Clint was leaned against the wall, sitting cross-legged on top of the thin mattress of the cot and holding his side protectively. His clothes had been removed too, leaving him in only the shirt he wore underneath his suit and his cargo pants. He looked up as Phil entered and the meager light caught his skin. It was pale and a slight sheen of sweat shined on his forehead. Though nowhere near death, he still looked worse for wear.

"Thank God. I was about to crazy in here," he stated, though no relief or humor entered his voice.

"When were you going to tell me?" Phil demanded.

"Tell you what?" Clint frowned at him innocently.

Phil tilted his head at the question and gave him the look he always did, when Clint was talking bullshit. He might as well have had it painted across his face.

The archer let out a breath through his teeth and nodded his head knowingly. Then he shrugged lightly before he said, "Well, I figured with everything else going on it shouldn't be a priority."

Phil swallowed a single time. How this stubborn archer would continue to demean his own safety and well-being just because it didn't fit into the program was beyond Phil's understanding. It saddened him more than it angered him to know Clint didn't think himself a priority. But that discussion wasn't one he was planning on having today. There was too much occurring right now. So he chose the light-hearted response instead.

"Lucky for you, the security head owes me a favor," he said and tugged at the strap of the medical bag slung over his shoulder for emphasis for his next words. "They couldn't let in any medical personnel, but I managed to sneak this in instead."

"They think I'm gonna break out using IV-bags and gauze?" Clint's words were light, but Phil could detect the bitterness underneath.

"Security precaution," Phil gently explained before dumping the bag into the cot next to Clint. "Am I gonna have to ask you to take your shirt off?"

"Geez, Phil. Aren't you at least going to buy me dinner first?" Clint mumbled as he lifted his T-shirt over his head to reveal his bare chest. Coulson immediately caught sight of the problem. Tattered blanket remains stuck to his abdomen and the right side of it was soaked with red.

As he untied the blankets and let it fall aside, he saw a gaping round hole, lazily oozing blood. Phil would recognize such a wound anywhere.

"So it was a bullet."

Clint gave no answer other than the quick rise of his shoulder.

"The round still in there?"

"No."

"Good," Phil sighed. He unzipped the medical bag and produced a packet of gauze, which he ripped open quickly. He pressed the white material into the wound firmly. The only response he got from the archer was the automated contraction of his muscles. Not a sound made it past his lips. He instructed Clint to place his own hand on top of the gauze and once he did, Phil dug out the IV-bag filled with saline along with the accompanying line and needle.

"Give me your arm," he instructed. He grabbed a hold of the limb as it was extended to him and massaged the crook of Clint's arm to make the large vein there more visible. Then he gently inserted the needle and used the medical tape to make it stay in place. He also taped the IV-bag to the wall above Clint's head and hoped it would stay there. Then he took over from applying pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding.

"How are things out there?" Clint asked then, breaking the silence that had settled.

Phil looked up from his work and for a brief moment wondered if he should sugarcoat it. But he knew Barton would see straight through it and for better or worse, the archer always did prefer bluntness. "Safe to say," he started. "Everybody is a little on edge. Fury's in with the council right now."

"I know."

Phil raised his eyebrows at the statement. Clint had only been withheld for a few hours now. But then again, the Director never did waste any unnecessary time. And perhaps that was why the security commander had allowed him such easy access.

"What did he want then?"

"To yell mostly. When he was done wasting his vocal chords, he asked for my side of it." Clint shrugged the best he could without aggravating his injury further. "He asked me to convince him."

"How did that go?" Phil asked, while he replaced the soaked gauze with a fresh one. The bloodied bandage he threw to the floor carelessly.

"He's talking with the council, so take a guess."

Phil only nodded affirmatively. He figured as much. If Fury hadn't believed the archer or had been convinced of his decision to bring in the Widow, he would have made the agent stand before the council in person and explain himself, gunshot wound or not. But it went a long way for the Director to place trust in his asset and Phil knew Clint appreciated it too, though he would never voice it.

"I'm surprised he didn't just put you in front of them instead." Phil's attempt at a small joke fell to the ground fairly quickly.

"Perhaps he's more concerned about me trying to escape than handing me over to the Council."

He looked up at his charge with a firm stare. He wasn't surprised at the dry look he received back.

"People are angry, Clint," he gently said as an explanation.

"They should be. I caused a lot of crap today."

"That's an understatement," Phil grumbled and added another pad of gauze to the wound when the other got soaked through. The used ones were added to the pile on the floor. The blood was a clear red, which meant no pus or infection. A good sign at least. "This isn't just gonna disappear overnight."

"I don't expect it too. But I don't regret anything I've done. And I'm not gonna lie and say that I do, if that's what they want."

"Clint," Phil warned. He searched the archer's face, but found only the stubbornly set jaw and confident eyes. Once Hawkeye set his sights on his target, he never missed.

"I'm not saying sorry for something I don't regret doing," the archer said.

"I know, but they might want an explanation at some point."

"I can't give them one."

"You are going to have to try. If Fury doesn't manage to convince the Council of your great idea, you're the one who's going to explain yourself."

"You're not listening, Phil. I can't give them one," Clint said again. At Phil's frowned expression he added softly, "Because I don't have one. The only one I have is what I said to you. And I don't think they're going to accept that."

Phil found himself averting his eyes and instead turned his attention back to the injury at hand. He felt Barton's eyes on him as he removed the gauze. The bleeding had now slowed down to almost nonexistent. He grabbed a thick, square bandage and placed it on top of the wound where he taped the corners so it wouldn't slip. Then he found a bandage roll and started wrapping it tightly around Clint's stomach. He made sure it would hold before he scooted back to inspect his work.

"That should keep you going until you get out of here," he said gently and started gathering the supplies he had used. "But as soon as you do, I want you down in the infirmary. That's an order I'm going to force you to follow."

"Sure thing, Phil," Clint grinned dryly before he gingerly put his shirt back on.

The older agent let out an up-giving sigh. No matter the circumstances, the game would always remain the same. He swung the now lighter medical bag over his shoulder again and headed for the door. Just before he exited though, he turned around to look at his charge with a sad smile. He wanted to comfort the young man before him, to tell him that things would eventually get better. But he knew Clint would only see it as empty words filled with pity.

So instead, he softly stated, "No matter the outcome, I'll always have faith in your decisions."

Clint didn't voice an answer but instead gave him a long, grateful look that spoke volumes.

* * *

Five more hours passed until Clint was finally let out of maximum security. And true to his word, Phil had been waiting right outside to escort him directly to the infirmary.

The archer had been far from pleased, stating he was fine although his pallor sunk that argument pretty quickly. He grumbled an incomprehensible sentence under his breath as his handler had stood guard by the door until Clint was lying in a bed with an IV feeding him both fluids and blood. Whatever it was, Phil was certain the words had been far from appropriate.

He had stayed by his charge's bedside then and waited until he had involuntarily fallen asleep. The pain medication he had been forced to take mixed with the already lingering fatigue of the past few days and it wasn't long before Clint's eyes slid closed.

Phil stayed a little while longer. It was only on occasions like these that Clint's mask seemed to disappear from his face. He always kept his emotions heavily guarded and the high walls he had built to protect himself seemed present at all times. Rarely, did he let it slip unless he wanted it. But unconsciousness had an almost youthful effect on the archer, as the pained lines disappeared and in those moments he looked like the young man he really was. Free from the turmoil of his life and the heavy weight that haunted his eyes. Phil only wished that at some point the agent would learn to wear it while he was awake. He sighed heavily before he rose from the lounge chair.

With a gentle squeeze of Clint's limp shoulder, he exited the small room. He went directly from the infirmary back to the holding cells.

It was time he had a talk with a certain redheaded assassin.

 **TBC**


	10. I've Got Blood On My Name

**Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : I've Got Blood On My Name

 **Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

The high buzz of her cell opening seemed to tear Romanoff from her deep thoughts and her head jerked to the door where Phil lingered for a short second.

She hadn't moved from the position he had last seen her in, although she looked a little more fatigued than before. He doubted she had rested since Clint had brought her in, God knew the rest of them hadn't. Her sharp green eyes followed Phil's movements as he slammed the door shut and dragged a steel chair into the small cell space and placed it opposite of her cot. He leaned into the backrest and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"I have some questions, Ms Romanoff," he stated. "This isn't official so nothing goes on record. I just want the truth. That means no manipulative words and no telling me what you think I wanna hear. I suspect you're lying or playing me and I'm leaving. Understand?"

Romanoff only stared at him and curtly nodded at his terms. He took it as a permission to go ahead.

"Good. Why do you deserve a second chance?"

"I don't," she replied without hesitation. Her voice was gentle, but something dark lurked beneath the surface. Phil frowned at the answer. It wasn't exactly the one he had expected.

"Agent Barton certainly seems to think so. So why don't you enlighten me?" Phil tried again. He did his best to keep his voice neutral and professional.

"If it's agent Barton's assessment you're after then perhaps you should ask him."

"I am not asking him, I'm asking you."

Romanoff averted his eyes for a second. When she looked at him again, her orbs were a swirl of uncertainty. Phil knew she was a master at manipulation and could probably fake just about any emotion, but there was something genuine hidden inside of her and he wondered if he had just been offered the first glimpse of it.

When she spoke again, her voice was raw and quiet. "I don't know why he spared my life. By all accounts, he should have taken it the first chance he got. But he didn't. Make of that what you will."

Phil felt his insides soften at the amount of bitter self-hatred the Widow seemed to hold towards herself. It was an emotion hard to fake, though he wouldn't put it above her to use it. But still, he swore he could see the sincerity oozing from her. He caught his mind drifting towards Clint and his own recruitment and all the lines of similarity that began to stretch out before him. He suspected he began to see what the archer claimed to exist within this Russian assassin.

 _Takes one to know one_.

"He tracked you down when you followed Vladimir Angeloff. You weren't in Moscow to assassinate him, were you?" he then asked.

"No. Rumor has it that he has several underground contacts, all specialized in extraction and the art of wiping an entire person's existence," she stated. "I hoped he could get me out of Russia and help me vanish before anyone caught on to what I was doing."

Phil nodded at the information. He had started scrambling information together about the Russian politician when Clint had reported the Widow's peculiar behavior. Though he didn't see it at the time, her story was plausible and certainly possible. But those were always the best lies.

"I'm guessing then, it was agents of the Red Room that tracked you through Moscow?"

"They figured it out sooner than I had hoped. They came after me. Agent Barton got caught in the crossfire."

Phil pursed his lips. Funny. He had almost expected the wound to have come from her hand. "But you got him out of there?"

She nodded a single time. Her eyes grew distant and seemed almost lost in thought. "He saved my life," she then said. "I figured I owed him that."

"And that's the only reason why you hauled him out?"

The only answer he got was a stern face and a raised eyebrow. Her face had changed and the hard mask of indifference she had arrived with slipped back into place. It was clear Phil couldn't get anymore useful information out of her. She was done talking. Phil exhaled harshly and got up from the chair, not even bothering to take it with him as he headed for the iron door. He suspected she wasn't planning on using it for a weapon.

"Well, then let's hope he didn't almost lose everything for a lie," he said, intentionally loud enough for her to hear as he walked out.

Just as the door closed he caught a quiet response, one Phil wasn't sure was meant for his ears or not.

"Not for a lie."

* * *

 _Two days later_

Clint's leg seemed to vibrate on its own as he stood leaned against the wall, his arms crossed before his chest.

He checked his watch again. He knew Fury was making him wait. He knew the Director was dragging it out as far as he possibly could to make the agent restless and annoyed because he hated simply waiting. But he didn't try and amuse himself like he normally would. He had been dancing on the thin line laid out before him since he came back with Romanoff in tow and he was confident that one single misstep, however minor, would cost him dearly. So he stayed silent as he impatiently waited for the judgment to fall. Fury and the Council were in there to decide whether or not Natasha Romanoff should be a SHIELD member. The Director had been inside the room for almost three days straight, debating, and now it finally seemed to be at an end. The archer was certain that Fury made it stretch on with the single purpose of pissing him off. All the waiting around made him jittery and anxious and he hated it.

Clint had been released from the infirmary only a few hours prior. Or he had released himself much to the disdain of the medical personnel. His body was still sore and if he stretched too far, his side would throb in time with his heartbeat. He still felt like he could probably sleep for a week if he got the chance, but nevertheless he was fine. The bullet wound had stopped bleeding yesterday and he would prefer trying not to rip his stitches in his own room or the rafters of the high ceiling, far away from the judgmental eyes of every SHIELD agent that passed him in the hall. He hadn't exactly been overly popular before this, but now it seemed just about everyone decided he had crossed the line, though most of them had no idea where that line lay or what it meant. They just judged him for it. He pointedly ignored all the poisonous glares thrown his direction and all the quiet whispers in the corners. He didn't care about their opinion of him, whether it was good or bad.

Footsteps echoed on the tiles and stopped by Clint's side. He didn't need to turn to know who it was and he didn't acknowledge the presence either. His handler simply leaned up against the wall the same way he did. They both stared straight ahead from the bridge, lazily following the SHIELD personnel that milled about in the large, busy hall underneath them.

"Heard you discharged yourself again," Phil said it without much didactic. He was simply stating the fact. Which was why Clint didn't bother explaining it away.

"You plan on dragging me back again?" he asked instead.

"I don't see the point," Phil said. Clint heard his suit rustle as he shrugged his shoulders. "You'd probably be out in two hours anyway."

The archer vaguely nodded his head even though Phil wasn't watching him. His handler knew he hated the infirmary and opted for keeping a careful eye on him and staying close instead. He would never voice it, but Clint appreciated how Phil went out of his way to make sure he didn't end up bleeding out somewhere.

The gentle swish of the door opening brought Clint out of his thoughts and the two agents out of their silence. Fury stalked out of the room, the stoic and hard look he had been sporting the past week still present on his face mixed with his usual scowl. Clint couldn't decipher what the look meant and if it carried good news for him or not. He knew he should be more restless and eager to know if his career had just ended. Phil, however, wasn't as good at hiding it.

"So?" he anxiously said.

"They're willing to give Romanoff a chance pending her evaluations," Fury simply stated. His remaining good eye switched from Phil to Clint. "They were however very dissatisfied with you."

"Have they ever been satisfied with me?" Clint huffed.

Fury ignored the comment. "There was talk about an official reprimand, but I convinced them that we could handle it internally."

The need to make a snarky remark must have been written clearly on his face because before Clint could open his mouth about Fury actually caring, Phil beat him to it.

"So what happens now?" his handler said and gave the agent a warning glance. Clint did his best to ignore it.

"Romanoff's gonna undergo the psychological and physical evaluation. If SHIELD is still standing by then she will begin recruitment training shortly after."

Phil noticed the look in Fury's eyes in the silence that followed and quickly picked up in the hint. He cleared his throat. "Guess I'm gonna start with her paperwork then."

Then he turned on his heel and left. Fury watched him go before he walked up to the railing overseeing the area underneath. Clint stayed where he was.

"You pissed them off good this time," Fury then sighed.

Unsure of what else to say, Clint simply stated, "I know."

"And yet you went along and did it anyway." The Director turned his piercing eye away from the crowd and towards the archer. His gaze was unrelenting and firm. "Just because I stopped the Council from tearing you a new one doesn't save you from me. You're the best asset SHIELD has ever had. I can't afford losing your talents. However you have had a habit of making my life miserable from the day you arrived, but I put up with it. Because you're a damn good agent I don't wish to lose."

It had to have been one of the most flattering things Clint had ever heard Fury say. Especially about him. His throat turned dry at the words and for once he had no fancy retort to throw back.

Fury's voice turned grave then as he continued, "But you overstepped the line this time, Barton."

"Yes, sir," was the only thing Clint could say.

"I want you out of my base and I don't want to see your face for the next month."

Clint simply nodded.

"Therefore I'm sending you on the Kazakhstan-mission. Threat-level 2. That means observe and report only," Fury held his eyes sternly. "Do not test my limits this time. You're valuable, but not irreplaceable."

This was more like the Director Fury he knew. He had no idea where this submissive behavior came from. Maybe it came from the feeling of having just dodged a major bullet and he didn't want to open his mouth, fearing he couldn't stop whatever mocking remark that would undoubtedly make its way across his lips. Instead he just nodded his head again.

Clint knew he was dismissed and therefore turned to leave the same way Phil had. Before he could disappear down the hall though, Fury's barking voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Barton!"

He turned.

"Don't screw up."

Clint's lips quirked wryly before exiting without another word.

 **TBC**


	11. I Will Make It Worth Your While

**Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : I Will Make It Worth Your While

 **Author's Note:** Alright. We are practically at the end with only a short chapter more to go. So until then, I hope you will enjoy and be so kind as to leave a review on the way out, that would just be awesome, thanks!

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Phil rested his arms on the metal railing on the broad walkway that hung suspended above one of the wide hangars.

Far below his feet, agents and flight personnel alike milled about. The pilots were checking their aircrafts, making sure all of them were in their best shape and yelling orders to their workers. Some were conversing with SHIELD agents regarding their newest mission and the transportation. Others were fixing some of the broken planes or cleaning those that had just been used. The whole hangar seemed to be buzzing with life and loud conversations.

But Phil only had his focus on the agent walking towards one of the smaller jets in the corner, a fully-stocked quiver strapped to his back along with carrying a suitcase and a traveling bag in each hand. The handler hadn't been thrilled to learn Clint was being sent on another mission so soon after returning with his latest. The archer needed a time-out more than anybody else. He had only just begun to heal after the bullet wound and Phil wasn't comfortable sending his agent out there again, knowing he wasn't a hundred percent.

But he also knew that this wasn't going to be as fast-paced as any other mission he had been sent on. It relied on observation only, which meant mostly still-standing work and nothing strenuous. Phil understood that Clint needed to get out of the base. There were too many whispers and angry people lurking in every corner. The best way to give Clint the breathing-room he needed was to send him away. Also, Phil suspected, it was to punish the archer for his decision. They couldn't simply fire him, so they had opted for the next best thing.

He felt the shadowing presence of the SHIELD Director as Fury's footsteps clanked on the walkway. He came to rest beside Phil and placed his hands firmly onto the railing. At first, there was only silence as none of them spoke. They only watched as Clint disposed of his things in the jet and helped the pilot with the necessary preparations.

Eventually Fury spoke.

"He pissed off a lot of people, Phil."

Phil could only nod. He had heard that a lot of times lately and had even said it himself.

"I have let a lot of things slide, but this time I can't just sweep it under the carpet," Fury said.

"Then why is he still here?" Phil turned towards his old friend, but Nick only continued to stare out in front of him.

"Because he is a valuable asset to this agency."

"Is that the only reason?"

That did make Fury turn to look at Coulson with a pointed glare. "Are you trying to say something, Phil?"

"All I'm saying is, I know he screwed up and he should be punished for it. But he has given so much for SHIELD and has never asked for anything in return," Phil said. "He has good instincts and not once have they failed him. He only brought in Romanoff if he had a damn good reason. Consider the possibility that he is right. Romanoff could end up giving Barton a run for his money."

"You're speaking ahead of yourself again. You're assuming Barton made the right call. What if you're wrong? What if he's wrong?" Fury challenged.

"What if he isn't?" Phil easily countered. "We had similar doubts when it concerned Barton."

"Barton had no loyalties and no ties. And he was far from her current kill count."

"Perhaps he didn't grow up in it. But he was just as dangerous." Phil sighed heavily before speaking again. "I'm not asking you to forgive him this instant. His methods were flawed, but his gut feeling has always been right."

Fury didn't answer and Phil knew the Director saw the truth behind his words.

"Just remember we gave him the benefit of the doubt," he said. "Shouldn't the same be said for her?"

"The decision has already been made and standing around talking about it isn't going to solve anything," Fury then said and straightened up to his full height again. "We take this one step at a time, Phil. Once her psych eval is over we'll see where it goes."

Phil knew that was about as close to an approval from Nicholas Fury as he was ever going to get regarding this matter. He watched the Director shoot one last look in Barton's direction before he turned to leave. The fabric of his long coat whirled around as he did and his footsteps echoed loudly as he made his way away from the bridge. Phil watched him go for a few moments before turning his attention back to the jet in the corner, its engines powering up as it prepared to take off.

He couldn't help the swell of pride that surged within him. Clint stood by his principles in the most tenacious way and he had always had since the day Phil had met the archer. But this was somehow different. Clint had fought so hard to make everyone else see what he had seen in the Black Widow and no matter what everyone else thought or felt, he stood by his choice. He was willing to take all the punishments dealt out for a decision he felt was right. He did what he deemed was the only true decision he could make. Never once had he faltered.

Phil had never been given a reason to doubt his own decision to bring in the archer over four years ago. And if he had any doubts about Clint's generosity and dedication it would have been completely gone now. He had had no doubts about his own call, just like Clint didn't have any about his own. In the end, Clint's stubborn determination and firm belief was enough to convince Phil that Natasha Romanoff belonged here.

He knew time would show everyone else that it was the right call too.

 **TBC**


	12. Epilogue

**Title** : The High Road Is Hard to Find

 **Summary** : He had been sent to kill the Black Widow. But as he sighted down the arrow something shifted and he suddenly found himself making a different call.

 **Chapter title** : Epilogue

 **Author's Note:** And so we have the little epilogue to finish this story off properly. I want to take a minute to thank every single reader who took their time to show their support to this story by reviewing, favoriting and alerting. All of it means a lot to me as a writer to know someone is enjoying what you are making. I am hoping all of you would take a little second to write a little comment about what you thought as the story as a whole and the characters and the events and so on. It would really make me very, indescribably, a lot, really happy!

So one last time, enjoy and please leave a review at the end. Thank you!

 **Disclaimer:** This is written for entertainment purposes only. No profit will be made and no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

 _6 months later_

Clint waltzed through the halls of the SHIELD base, his bag slung over his shoulder and the suitcase for his collapsible bow in his hand.

He was happy to have returned to Washington again after finishing what would be the fifth scouting mission in the past 6 months. It was the only thing he had been assigned to lately and the biggest adrenaline rush he had gotten during those months was missing a step on a flight of stairs on his way to the roof. Needless to say, he had been bored out of his mind.

He knew he was being punished in the worst way possible. For half a year he had done nothing but basically sitting on his ass and watching people, gathering intel, like some common low-level agent. On some level he had found new respect for those who never got to do anything else and not have physically strangled themselves after the first two weeks. But he also found that this was way below his pay-grade. This was the sort of thing you got assigned to when you were new and they weren't completely sure of your skill-set. Clint considered himself a patient man at the best of times but there were some things he didn't have the patience for. This was one of them. During the time since he had been sent on the Kazakhstan mission he had been jittery with unused energy that he couldn't truly spend properly, but at the same time he was exhausted from long days and nights of simply watching and documenting. He was so completely and thoroughly bored and he found himself praying that somewhere there must be some dangerous jackass that decided to stir up trouble. He hoped that would make Fury end this horrible, dull torture he was caught in.

He knew it was supposed to teach him a lesson about pulling another stunt like the one with Romanoff. Perhaps the lesson had been learned but if it ever came down to it and he found himself face to face with the same dilemma all over again he would do it without hesitation. Some things were worth suffering for.

Clint had been pleasantly surprised to find that even after 6 whole months Romanoff hadn't tried to kill anyone or make her escape. None of the Red Room agents came knocking on SHIELD's door or corrupted any missions that would suggest the Widow had betrayed them. Instead the redheaded assassin had simply done pretty much what he had done his first months here. She followed and excelled the training schedule and otherwise stayed away from any unnecessary human contact, although she seemed to be a much bigger expert in the latter than he had been. She basically ignored all those she could and those she couldn't she spend the minimum vocabulary she could get away with. The only ones she even responded to was Coulson, the few trainers she hadn't completely scared off yet and Clint, although most of the responses he got out of her were pointed, hard glares and eye-rolls. The archer prided himself on being the only one who could annoy her like that.

Phil joined him on his way to his private room. He had missed having his handler with him on his missions, especially when there had been nothing to do. He would at least have had someone to talk to. But that wasn't something he was about to admit out loud, although he suspected the older agent already knew.

"How was Istanbul?" Phil asked casually. They never wasted time on pleasantries.

"Boring as hell. Just like Egypt, Marrakesh and everything else before that," Clint quickly replied. "How's Romanoff doing?"

"Due to receive her agent status any day now."

"Really?" Clint whipped his head around to stare at his handler. "That was fast."

"What did you expect? She's aced pretty much every test we've given her," Phil explained.

"Guess I didn't expect them to trust her that quickly," Clint shrugged his shoulder in an attempt to readjust his bag.

"Oh, they don't. That's why they assigned her to you."

The words came out so casually that it took Clint an extra second to actually register what Phil had said. When it finally did, he stopped in his tracks. "To what now?"

"Technically, they made me her handler," Phil started to explain, his posture and attitude so casual it didn't match any of the words he spoke. "But you're the one to keep an eye on her out there in the field and then report back to me."

"You're kidding right?" Clint tried again. "None of us are exactly team players. We could end up killing each other."

"That would probably make the higher-ups happy."

"Phil," Clint warned with a dry stare. He didn't care much for the light-hearted joke.

His handler however didn't seem fazed by it. It was clear he was having the time of his life at Clint's expense. He continued on with a light smirk on his face. "Suck it up, Clint. This could end up being a good thing."

Clint sighed heavily and knew the battle was lost before it even begun. He just had to accept the fact as it was. "Do we at least get a cool codename to go with our little group?"

"They're calling it Strike Team Delta."

Clint raised an eyebrow at the name. Perhaps it did have a nice ring to it. But he wasn't about to let Phil know that. Instead he said, "Sounds way too serious and official. I think something a bit more cheerful would fit."

He spent the following ten minutes making up the most ridiculous codenames his imagination could conjure up and Phil could only roll his eyes as he let him ramble on.

* * *

Clint found Romanoff a little while later in her own personal quarters. She was sitting on the lowest cot of the steel bunk bed, busy with dismantling a Glock and cleaning the parts meticulously. She looked up from her work as she heard the archer in the doorway, leaning with crossed arms against the doorframe.

"Heard congratulations are in order," Clint casually said. He couldn't keep the wide smile from spreading across his face.

She only shrugged nonchalantly and flatly said, "I guess it is."

"What? You haven't seen me in a month and already lose your sense of humor?"

A pointed glare was all the response he received. Clint knew if this partnership was going to have any affect he would be in charge of most of the talking. Which was fine with him. If he kept pushing he would eventually get a response from her.

Challenge accepted.

He walked further into the room until he was by her cot. She tracked his every movement with a slight suspicion. "So I heard you wiped the floor with basically everyone during sparring sessions. You ready to start trying to wipe it with me?"

He made sure the challenge was clear in his voice while he kept a confident spark in his eyes. He hoped it would be enough for her to rise up to the dare. Romanoff eyed him for a long second and then she rose with a similar glint in her green eyes.

"Bring it on," she said.

His smirked at the answer and offered his hand to her. "You're on, _agent_ Romanoff," he said, putting pressure on the word.

It earned him a wry smile from Natasha and she grabbed a firm hold on his extended hand and shook it. "Agent Barton."

None of them knew that this was the beginning of the strongest partnership SHIELD had ever seen. It was the beginning of Hawkeye and Black Widow. The beginning of the infamous Strike Team Delta.

And it all started with a different call.

 **THE END**


End file.
